Breathing in Snowflakes
by ry123red
Summary: Arya reflects on her past and future. Unable to leave her identity as a Stark of Winterfell behind, she contemplates vengeance on those who betrayed her family.


Prompt: Reflection, "The A Team" by Ed Sheeran.

My knowledge about Game of Thrones is limited to the HBO show, so if this does not match up with facts from the book, I apologize. Also, I added my own events so this one-shot is a bit AU. **Slight spoilers** **for seasons 1-3**. Anyways, Happy Reading

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Breathing in Snowflakes

Arya Stark stood on the waterfront, her dark grey eyes moving over the restless waves. She sat on the rock cliff's edge, her legs dangling over the side. The air was sticky with salt and humidity. A rough wave crashed against the rock she sat on, spraying her pale legs with warm water. The surrounding area was vacant, save for a lonesome fisherman just within sight. The only sounds were the roaring waves, and gulls crowing overhead in search of scraps of food. Children often came here to throw the burnt edges of bread out for the birds to catch mid-air.

The sun beat down on her exposed shoulders, turning her skin pink. It seemed no matter how long she stayed in Braavos, her pale skin stubbornly refused to tan; this made her stand out starkly against the naturally sun-tanned people of Braavos. Arya's dark hair escaped from the loose braid she had tied it back in. The long tendrils curled around her face, disguising her youthful age.

Two years.

Arya knew she had to be around fifteen by now. She had lost track of the number of her name days that had passed. In her training with the Faceless Man, she had been told to erase all parts of her former self. Arya Stark of Winterfell could no longer exist.

Despite her determination, this task was harder than she had anticipated. Arya had retreated to this isolated area by the ocean to focus on the task of letting go of her past. For someone so young, the wolf girl's history was a violent one, filled with death, blood, and loss.

_Cersei._

_Joffrey._

_Ilyn Payne._

_The Hound._

She had already watched the Hound die. After succumbing to an infected wound, he had beseeched her to put him out of his misery, his wide and pain-crazed eyes on Needle. She had refused. He deserved to suffer. A quick, easy death would be too kind.

That left three people. Three lives that would come to an end by her hand. _What would her mother think? _

Arya was no longer the same little girl from Winterfell who learned dancing with a wooden sword, and teased Sansa for fun; she had exchanged the wooden weapon for a real one a long time ago. Sansa. Gods, it had been months since she had allowed herself to even think her only sister's name.

Earlier, she had heard some women in the market gossiping about politics in Westeros, and the endless battle for the Iron Throne. Arya found herself starving for word about the few family members that remained alive.

The words she heard made Arya want to scream and stick Needle into anyone who crossed her path.

Sansa had died giving birth to a daughter.

Her sister was gone.

And she hadn't been there.

Arya stumbled slightly when she heard, drawing more than a few confused looks. Quickly, she regained her composure and her face was apathetically blank once again. Her training here had allowed her to become excellent at compartmentalizing her problems.

Numbness.

She blinked, not remembering the trek to the waters edge. _Had people spoken to her? Was this even happening? Had she really been hiding here while her family's numbers slowly dwindled down to fewer and fewer?_

_No._

Arya was here to learn. She was here to train in the arts of Braavosi dancing to become an assassin. It was the only way to avenge her family. Her father. Her mother. Robb. Sansa.

No one.

She was alone.

Arya absently stroked a hand over where Needle rested in her belt. Here, a woman in breeches and wielding a sword wasn't unheard of. Here, she didn't get called "boy". Ironically, Arya longed for the days where she traveled with Gendry, Hot Pie, and the Brotherhood Without Banners. In that terrible time, she had grown close to both men- especially Gendry. He had known from the very beginning that she was a girl. His shocked and embarrassed outrage at discovering she was _Lady _Arya was amusing, and a bit annoying,

She didn't want to be treated differently. She wanted to be seen as an equal, and here, she was.

Yet, she was still plagued with nightmares about her father's beheading and the Red Wedding. Blood flowed freely in these dreams, and Nymeria howled forlornly in the distance. Lonely. Abandoned. Forgotten.

Arya remembered playing in the woods outside her home in Winterfell. Nymeria was just a pup, and would chase snowflakes as they fell from the dark, summer sky.

_Winter is coming._

Arya wondered absently if winter was still raging in Westeros, gathering the South in its icy, destructive grasp and slowly squeezing the life out of it. Arya found herself hoping those damn Lannisters survived the winter, because she was coming for them.

Not today, but soon.

_What do we say to the god of death?_

The Faceless Man did not believe she was ready. She had told him of her plans to leave Braavos, and travel back to Westeros. She would end those who destroyed her family, and ruined everything. He warned her that a girl should not leave her training unfinished. He said she still had not let go of her identity as Arya of House Stark of Winterfell. His words were that until she was free of her past, it would haunt her, and she would be unable to complete her mission.

She couldn't stay here training any longer while her few remaining family members were killed. Jon. Bran. Rickton. _Gendry. _Even though she and Gendry weren't related by blood, she felt akin to him much in the same way she had been to Jon. Maybe even more so.

_I can be your family._

She had heard the rumors about Bran and Rickton. People said that Theon Greyjoy had murdered them in her parent's absence; she didn't believe it. Arya could feel it in her bones: they were alive.

She knew though, that everyone thought she was dead. Arya had disappeared after her father's beheading, never to be seen again. She had gotten lucky. All the years of being mistaken for a boy paid off, and she was able to use her less than delicate features to her advantage, disguising herself as Arry the runaway.

Distantly, Arya noticed a trading ship being loaded near the docks on the other side of the waterfront. The billowing white sails bore a black stag symbol. The sigil of House Baratheon.

The ship would be departing for King's Landing tonight.

And Arya would be on it.


End file.
